The little town climbed in straggling fashion up a sharp hill rising out
of the plain at the back of the station, and was crowned by the twin
towers of the ruined cathedral peeping over the summit. From the station
itself it looked uninteresting and modern, but the fact was that the
mediaeval position lay out of sight just beyond the crest. And once he
reached the top and entered the old streets, he stepped clean out of
modern life into a bygone century. The noise and bustle of the crowded
train seemed days away. The spirit of this silent hill-town, remote from
tourists and motor-cars, dreaming its own quiet life under the autumn
sun, rose up and cast its spell upon him. Long before he recognised this
spell he acted under it. He walked softly, almost on tiptoe, down the
winding narrow streets where the gables all but met over his head, and
he entered the doorway of the solitary inn with a deprecating and modest
demeanour that was in itself an apology for intruding upon the place and
disturbing its dream.

At first, however, Vezin said, he noticed very little of all this. The
attempt at analysis came much later. What struck him then was only the
delightful contrast of the silence and peace after the dust and noisy
rattle of the train. He felt soothed and stroked like a cat.

"Like a cat, you said?" interrupted John Silence, quickly catching him
up.

"Yes. At the very start I felt that." He laughed apologetically. "I felt
as though the warmth and the stillness and the comfort made me purr. It
seemed to be the general mood of the whole place--then."

The inn, a rambling ancient house, the atmosphere of the old coaching